Hidden Agendas
by Ning Ning
Summary: Everyone will leave you behind, watching the setting sun casting shadows from his back. Everyone will abandon you, ready to fulfill their own destinies, as you stay, broken and pleading and wishing for someone to save you. GrenFaye, unrequited FayeSpike,


**FANDOM:** Cowboy Bebop

**TITLE: **Hidden Agendas

**RATING:** Mature, R.

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own, and am in no way affiliated with, _Cowboy Bebop_. I am making no profit from this.

**SUMMARY:** Everyone will leave you behind, watching the setting sun casting shadows from his back. Everyone will abandon you, ready to fulfill their own destinies, as you stay, broken and pleading and wishing for someone to save you.

**PAIRING(S):** Gren/Faye, subtle Spike/Faye

You'd think that living for so long, I'd understand the way people work. Forget about the fact that I've only been "awake" for three years. You'd think that I'd finally understand a valuable lesson in my life. And no matter how hard, or how many times, I try to convince myself, honestly, who am I kidding?

People always leave.

They all have their own internal, hidden agenda deep down inside.

It's like we're all waltzing to our own stupid tune. With our eyes closed, not caring who we hit into, who's feet we step on. We say, hey, it's my dance. This is _my_ dance. It's your decision to get in the way, but you can't stop me. I could dance with you, holding you close, but then, my choice to change partners.

We're all humming our little life between our lips.

He's sitting across from me, clad only in a dark green robe and slippers. Where I can see the water droplets from his shower drip from his hair, and then to the valley between his – his breasts. He's talking, talking about his life with Vicious, his _comrade_, and damnit, I can't believe the things that he's telling me. I mean, I can't; I can still feel the soft murmur next to me, Death clad in black, and white hair:

_You're trembling_.

Just not Gren. He can't be part of Vicious' scheme. But the more he speaks and explains, and tries to paint his past to me, I realize what he's saying. But I have to state the obvious anyway with my gun between my legs, two hands clasped around it. Ready and primed. I'll do what I have to.

"He'll murder you."

"Death does not frighten me."

Why is it that all the men in my life are ready to sacrifice themselves? These men with a _past_, remembering their _life_, and they're ready to throw it all away. Because it's their choice. As if they could decide these things; as if their life is really their own and not controlled by someone else.

"You're lying!"

He has to be.

He has to be! He can't be already willing to give up what he _has_.

How could anyone easily throw away their life?

"Either way, I don't have long to live." He gets up from his seat and walks behind me, his slippers making hardly a sound as he walks behind me.

As he walks towards and behind me.

As he saved me once and now leaves me alone forever.

"Why did you bring me here?"

All I have are questions, questions, questions. And I wait, my hands sweaty and clenched, trembling for his response.

"Maybe I wanted to be with someone. I – I don't know."

Another lie. All everyone's been doing is lying. Damnit, my whole life – these three years and a black, empty space for my past – have been full of lies and debts.

Truth just seems to be something I dream about.

"You just help someone selfishly and you take them home," the thought is just making me sick, it's making me so angry, and I tighten my grip even more on my gun, "and then you go off to die."

It's not fair, and I grunt as I lunge from the chair, aiming my gun at his form. He is facing me, and I shoot, bang, bang, bang, as he dodges, quick and fast, and then his hand circles over my wrist, twisting the gun from my grasp. It falls back onto the chair, and I hear the click of the handcuffs as he opens them before placing one of them around my wrist.

I open my mouth to speak, to protest, to – damnit, I don't know – convince him not to go to Vicious before his lips cover mine, muffling my pleas.

He is soft, and I can taste the vodka on his breath. It's been so long since I've had any intimate contact, and as he puts his hands on my shoulders, I can feel calluses. I feel them on my skin, his palms moving down my arms, and his fingers wrap around my wrist, a perfect circle, and quickly, he yanks at my wrists, pushing my breasts against his chest, and I gasp into his mouth.

The handcuffs are now secure, and there is no way I can get myself out of this. But just feeling his lips on mine is like a familiar sensation, and I feel – I feel safe in his semi-embrace. His hands are on the small of my back, and he grips me tighter, and the weirdest sensation passes through me, and I don't know how to explain it as I feel his stiff nipples and small breasts rub against mine, but feel his arousal against my leg.

I suppose the first thing that came to my mind was awkward, and yet it was a good feeling, and I admit, I rubbed myself against him as he pressed harder and harder. We both part for air, and I search into his eyes, his blue, blue eyes, as he smiles faintly at me, that small smirk he gives which makes you think he knows everything, all the terrible things of life.

Then we both avoid each other's gaze, but I can feel how the tension thickens. His breath puffs against my cheek, and we're both breathing heavily, and I can feel the heat emanating from his hands on my hips. Right underneath my yellow blouse. His fingers making small circles on my bare skin.

I lean my forehead against his, closing my eyes, and tilt my lips up. I can feel the way his lips are curved up as again, we kiss, and again, I'm lost in the heady sensation – could this be bliss? My hands still locked around my back, his thumbs are right underneath my chin now before they go down, down, down, and open my jacket, and feeling my breasts in his palms, kneading and rubbing and pinching my nipples lightly.

His kisses fall on my neck, sucking on my pulse, but lightly, not hard enough to leave a mark.

Gren is soft. Delicate.

"Do you like how this feels?"

His voice, deep and seductive, is like a lilting tune as it graces my ear and floats in the air. My mouth is dry as I try to respond, and I close my eyes, feeling myself float.

Dancing in his arms.

I can pretend that we're together, moving fluidly to our own private music.

We're in his room now, all blue tones and shades and hues, and when I look into his eyes, I'm drowning. Drowning. Lost in his eyes, and I can feel his pain, I can see what he's trying to accomplish, and with that feeling of such affection comes a hate inside of me, angry and churning.

He can't expect to survive when he goes to Vicious.

How can he do these things to me and then leave? How can he think that by saving someone else, then it's all right? How can he leave me?

But then we lie on his bed, and his robe is on the floor, and our mouths are sliding over each other's as he yanks down my shorts, leaving everything else on, and then our tongues mimic what we're doing, my legs wrapped around him, his hands hooked around my shoulders as the slap of skin and musk pervade the room.

And all I can think about is the colors of his room, Gren's eyes as the endless depth of an ocean, old and gentle, thinking about the mix of a blue suit and a yellow shirt with a black tie around his neck…

As we push our hips against each other's, clenching and unclenching, feeling and not thinking at all.

And when it's all over, his breasts on mine, his length sliding out of me, our breaths intermingling, he peppers kisses all over my face. He grabs a towel, wiping the sweat from me, and buttons my blouse back on, light butterfly touches on my skin, pulls my shorts up, and ties my red jacket back on.

He says nothing to me as I lay there, silent and unmoving.

Gren puts his clothes on.

And I thought he would be different.

But he leaves, burdened by his own secret, hidden agenda.

Playing his own private song, listening to his own tune.

Everyone will leave you behind, watching the setting sun casting shadows from his back. Everyone will abandon you, ready to fulfill their own destinies, as you stay, broken and pleading and wishing for someone to save you.

People can easily throw away their lives. Though they know their pasts, they learned from their mistakes, they know their whole lives, but they can just – they can just _sacrifice_ themselves, and for what?

What are these people doing this for?

I'm sprawled all over the couch, and Ed starts painting my toes, humming or speaking or doing whatever, dancing to her own song.

Gren's eyes, the fathomless pit to his soul and pain. The blue of his room as we breathed and felt each other on his bed. The familiar blue of someone else, his easy slouch and voice, sharing private times together as our embers burn first blue and then red.

"Oh, Ed. Any color but blue."


End file.
